Thursday, June 07, 2007

The Ex Files

Because of the response to the material I published a few days ago dealing with my time in rehab (Welcome to the Monkey House/6.4.07), I had originally decided to post one or two more quick excerpts from the original version of the manuscript I wrote focusing on that rather tumultuous period in my life.

Then something, well, interesting happened.

Suffice it to say that I'll get into it further in the very near future (to paraphrase Ash from Alien, I need to "collate" for a couple of days), but for now I'm going to go ahead and post the portion I had initially intended. It details an incident that took place between myself and my ex-wife during our engagement -- one which devastated my sense of safety and probably should've spoken volumes about what was to eventually come in our marriage.

That said, I make no excuses for my own sickening and monstrous reaction in the heat of the moment.

Her name has been changed.

August 1999: There's Out, and There's Out

By the time this happened, Kara and I had already moved in together—into the tiny apartment from which she had once run crying. She'd quickly made it her mission to convert the place into something more to her liking, which meant new curtains, better artwork for the walls and a couple of coats of colorful paint. I was willing to admit that the Martha Stewartization of the place certainly made for a dramatic improvement. What I kept to myself though was the strange feeling that the transformation of my living space was somehow symbolic of a larger change that had taken root in my life. I was more serious. More responsible. More dedicated to making a relationship work. More of an adult—and less the fucking asshole child I’d been ecstatically unleashing wholesale on an unsuspecting public for almost three decades. Kara made it clear that she would tolerate nothing less, and for the first time in my life—rather than declaring mutiny against the perceived tyranny of high expectations—I was happy to rise to such exacting standards.

In spite of the change for the better and the sense of pride that came with it however, my demons were still my demons. One insecurity that I just couldn’t shake was the fear that I somehow didn’t measure up to my fiancée’s ex-boyfriends and lovers—and there were many. Kara’s stories of men with money and status bending over backward for her—and her in turn simply bending over for them—were enough to give just about anyone an inferiority complex, particularly someone whose credit rating looked like one side of a soccer score. One man took her to Borneo. One took her to Rome. One was an investment banker. One was a guy her father had recently fired—whom she bedded simply as a form of late rebellion. The bottom line was that it all added to the fear that I was somehow inadequate and eventually she was going to realize it. It was a fear I attempted to counteract by telling myself that it was completely illogical. The past was the past after all.

That is, until the past became the present.

It was a Wednesday evening when Kara told me that an ex-boyfriend—a big-time lawyer from out west—had called her at work and told her that he was in town for a day or two. He wanted to get together with her for a drink after work. She agreed, seemingly without so much as a second thought.

“You don’t see anything that might make me a little nervous about this?”

“No,” she responded as she busied herself about the kitchen. “Why should it?”

“He’s an ex. Isn’t there some kind of relationship rule about having a drink with an ex when you’re engaged? I seem to remember that from watching sitcoms.”

“It’s only a problem if you make it one.”

I was surprised at how calm and rational I was being, in spite of the fact that there was a part of me that wanted to just tell her to go hide in the closet and not come out until the threat had passed and lawyer-boy was safely back in California.

“And if I told you it makes me uncomfortable?”

“I’d tell you it shouldn’t.”

“That’s not exactly the reassurance I was hoping for.”

She stopped looking through the cupboard and turned to face me.

“What do you want me to say? Honey don’t worry? Honey I love you? Honey he was a completely meaningless fling?”

“Everything but that last part sounds like a decent start.”

“Well I’m not going to say that. I’m going to say that you need to trust me.”

She turned her back to me, and her attention back to whatever was eluding her in the cupboard.

“And I do. That’s not the issue.”

“Well what is?” She said—exasperated—into the open cabinet.

“I don’t know this guy. I don’t know in how high a regard he holds the whole sanctity-of-marriage thing.”

“He’s a friend Chez.”

“He’s an ex-boyfriend Kara. Friends haven’t slept with you.”

“Exactly. He’s already slept with me. He won’t need to again.”

That actually got a chuckle out of me. She finally grabbed a can of tuna from one of the shelves and popped it in the electric can opener.

“You really don’t know how guys think do you?” I said, over the whir of the opener.

“Of course I do, but it doesn’t matter. He’s an old friend and I’d really like to see him.”

I walked around the counter separating the dining room from the kitchen and approached her from behind, putting my hands on her waist. I turned her around to face me.

“Look—it makes me uncomfortable.”

“That’s just irrational.”

“It’s not just irrational, it’s completely fucking irrational,” I said. “But you know what, if you asked me to do something for no other reason than because it made you feel better, I’d do it—even if I thought you were being completely fucking irrational,” I said, giving her a genuinely warm smile. “That’s what a commitment like this is about sometimes: doing something the person you love wants, just because he or she wants it.”

“I just don’t see why this is such a big deal.”

“It’s not. But it bugs me, and I think that should be enough. I’m not gonna tell you not to go, but you should know that irrational or not, it’s probably gonna hurt me if you do.”

I went to sleep a couple of hours later thinking that I made my little case as best I could and that—since she had a heart and said she loved me—she’d probably figure this wasn’t by any means a battle worth fighting.

I found out how wrong I was when I walked into the bathroom the next morning as she was getting ready for work. I stood in the doorway for a few seconds taking in the sight of her. She was leaning into the mirror applying a coat of deep red lipstick—the kind I had always told her could stop traffic. Her makeup was perfect. Her hair was perfect. She had on a tight black low-cut top that immediately drew your eyes to the space between her breasts. Her skirt meanwhile, was cut high enough so that as she leaned across the bathroom vanity, I could practically see the color of her thong underwear. She looked more like a girl heading out to a South Beach club on a Saturday night, than a woman heading off to work on a Thursday morning.

The conversation lasted all of one sentence.

“I guess this means you’re going.”

She turned around, looked at me and gave me an expression that I could never imitate, but neither could I ever forget. The main ingredient for the most part, seemed to be pity. It was a little shrug coupled with a kind of sad smile that said everything she wasn’t bothering to put into words. It said, “Sorry, but yeah. I’m going.”

I was angry. I was hurt. I spent most of my day at work stewing, wondering how the hell the woman who said she loved me and was going to marry me couldn’t make the most miniscule of compromises for me. The only mitigating factor that stopped my growing outrage from boiling over into unadulterated fury was the knowledge that none of this was about the man she would be having a drink with later that evening. He was simply the catalyst—some guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time. The person this was truly all about was Kara. No one had ever asked her where she was going or why she was going there. No one had ever interrupted her daily flow. No one had ever stood in her way. Her “date” that evening wasn’t happening because she wanted to see someone else; it was happening because she wanted to prove that she still could if the mood struck her. It was her personal defiance against the oppression of a real relationship. This was the woman, after all, who had once told me, in reference to dating for longer than a few weeks: “I don’t keep milk in the house, because it’s a living thing and I’ll kill it.” As far as she was concerned, she was simply asserting herself.

Or so I wanted to believe anyway.

My hope that this might just be her way of thumbing her nose at “The Man” flooded out of me, along with most of the color in my face, when I walked through the door of our apartment after work, well past midnight. She wasn’t home. I immediately added up the time in my head. She was supposed to meet her ex at 6:30 on the beach, it was now almost six hours later and she still wasn’t home. I dialed her cell phone twice and got only her voicemail. I went to the fridge and opened a beer, then sat down on the couch and waited like a helpless father waiting for his teenager to stroll through the door after curfew.

While I sat there in utter silence, I thought to myself—

Why in the hell am I putting up with this?

Is this worth it?

Is she really so goddamned special?

Does she even want to marry me?

Does she want to marry anyone?

Why do I love her so much?

Why can’t I break free?

This last question was the one that wound up haunting me for far too long.

The key hit the door, the knob turned, and in she stumbled—just a little after one in the morning. I stood up and breathed in as deeply as I could, appealing to my brain and body for calm.

“Man—you are a piece of work.”

She just gave me a languid smile and walked past me toward the bedroom. The smell of alcohol seemed to be seeping from every pore in her body. I turned and followed her—talking to her back.

“I tell you openly and honestly that I’m uncomfortable with you going out with an ex-boyfriend, and not only do you go—looking about as good as I’ve ever seen you look by the way—but you go, and come home trashed at one in the morning.”

“Sorry,” she shrugged, slurring the word to the point of turning it into one long syllable.

“That’s it? That’s the best you can do? That’s all I’m fucking worth?”

“Can we talk about this in the morning? I just wanna go to bed.”

She plopped down hard on the edge of the bed, unzipped and pulled off her black leather boots. The part of my brain that wasn’t being absorbed by a steadily growing rage knew she was right—that it should wait until morning when she was sober and I wasn’t ready to put my fist through a wall. That rational side though, didn’t stand a chance of being heard at the moment. The blood thrumming through my ears was drowning it out completely.

“Answer me please. Tell me something. Give me an excuse—anything.”

“There’s nothing to tell. We had a few drinks. We were having a good time. We stayed late.”

“Did it ever occur to you to either just give me a call and let me know you’d be late, or God-fucking-forbid, to actually come home because you knew it’d make the man you love feel better?”

“No.”

She stood up, swaying briefly before steadying herself, pulled the little black top over her head and unhooked her bra. Then in one motion she slid down and stepped out of her skirt and underwear, and she was naked. As usual, I was momentarily stunned into silence. Her makeup was perfect—a little too perfect I suddenly thought. Her hair was perfect—also too perfect. Her body was gorgeous. I immediately felt the usual desire for her welling up inside of me—flooding every part of me. This time though, the feeling was something else—something frightening. Malevolence mixed with passion mixed with fury mixed with lust mixed with violence mixed with sex.

I wanted to fuck her.

I wanted to brutalize her.

I wanted to defile her.

I despised her.

I swallowed hard. I breathed in as deeply as I could. I clenched my fists. I fought back the pain and the rage and the horrible thoughts that were threatening to take control of me. I took a step toward her and put my hand on her wrist, despite the unwavering knowledge that this simple act could open the flood gates that would unleash—something. Something that I would be unable to stop once it started.

27 comments:

It's clear that the physical attraction you had to your ex-wife was pretty strong. Hopefully you utilize your talent in the English language in such ways towards Jayne as to make the lust you described here seem like an adolescent boy talking about a playboy model in comparison.

You've certainly made it clear that the emotional attraction to your current wife makes the emotional attraction to your ex similar to that of an adolescent boy talking about playboy model in comparison.

nah, no worries, kids. Chez wrote this years ago- it's part of his book, which he wrote with my encouragement. Of course you're all entitled to your opinion (I won't comment further on this post), but I'm not worried in the least.

About a year after we were divorced, my ex-husband called me up out of the blue and said he wanted to meet up because he needed "closure."

(Keep in mind that he was the one that wanted the divorce, because marriage was just too much responsibility. Although, he did want to keep living together, share expenses, and have an open relationship.)

I think it took about a split second for me to deliberate on my response.

Although in hindsight, yes, it's interesting that I chose the pseudonym Kara -- given my well-known fascination with a certain television Viper pilot. It's also damn funny that, at first glance, the woman of whom I'm speaking would seem to bear a hell of a resemblance to the lovely Ms. Thrace -- but rest assured, this was written before I was even aware of the latter's existence.

I seriously just pulled the name out of my ass.

Originally I was going to call her "Amy" -- which would've made for a really great inside joke, being that during our wedding ceremony, the priest accidentally called her that (why, is apparently between him and God). I didn't go with it though because there was already another character with a similar name which seemed to work perfectly.

As for my supposedly being "hung-up" on my ex: just because I remember something well and of course had to force myself to dredge up certain emotions to make the story work in no way means that I actually feel those things anymore.

At some point, I'll elaborate on this a little more, but it's perfectly correct to say that Jayne -- and my relationship with her -- represents the most passionate/content I've ever been, and there simply isn't room for anyone else, spectral or otherwise.

It seems to me that every relationship we endure leads us to choose the right person. When I look back there were women I very easily could of ended up with and a few I thought at the time I should of ended up with. Once I became fully aware of it, all of the trials and tribulations with all of those other girls helped me to understand myself and understand just how perfect my wife is for me. I'm sure that's not how it works for everyone but it's what a take from reading this. Without "Kate" there couldn't have been Jayne.

Another reason I'm glad I stumbled upon your "experiment" I recently ended a relationship with a "Kara". I really didn't realize why all my previous efforts to save the relationship failed until I read your "Bulletproof Hearts" entry and understood the "selfish type". After this entry I see, in retrospect, even more of the "Kara" traits.

Appreciate the sharage. Nice to know I wasn't the only one. I can only hope that there is some degree of justice for the other party. Because I am gloriously vindictive at this time.

Max -- thanks for the kind words. I understand the vindictive thing, very much in fact. I did that for quite awhile, and to be honest, there have been a few brand new developments which have made me question whether I'm still to this day interested in seeing some measure of unfulfilled justice handed out.

I have no doubt that I'll be writing about this at some point in the near future.

I'm sure that writing this now you realize that the simple truth was all along that "Kara" did not, in fact, want to marry you. And you didn't want to marry her, either. Our tendency to excuse, dismiss, and otherwise convolute truths like this one is a flaw that comes with being human. It's unfortunate that our emotions can lead us to make such bad decisions when they are such an integral part of our human needs. Still, it pays to keep Ockham in mind and remember that the simplest explanation is usually the best, regardless of what explanation makes you feel better.

Your reaction might have been "sickening and monstrous," but it was also wholly human. No one wants to be treated that way by someone we love; it shows profound disrespect to you and the relationship itself, and you can be sure if it happened to me I'd feel the same way, mostly due to feelings of lack of control over my life the way I want it to be. I doubt anyone would fault you for violent and malevolent rage (assuming you didn't follow through with it and throw her through a wall, of course. Even though she deserved it.)

I wouldn't say she deserved it, Ames. I think we've all been in a relationship that lasted too long, and stayed for reasons not completely selfish. The best thing she could have done would have probably been to end the relationship when she realized it wasn't working for her, but who is to say when she actually came to that realization. I'm guessing she hadn't at that point, considering that they ended up getting married eventually. It's really easy to demonize the person who has hurt you, but more often than not, they didn't hurt you deliberately. People fuck up, people get hurt. I agree that Chez had (and still has) every right to feel however anything makes him feel, but to act out on that feeling, to deliberately harm someone, is not right. Nor is it deserved.

People do things because they do things. Unfortunately we are often chained, by luck, chance or circumstance, to someone else and pain ensues, envelopes, corrodes, occasionally explodes and these "things" often have little if anything to do with that person we're chained to......

but...we want what we want.

Hopefully we are human and can come to terms with our egos and their place in our little universe. Granted, it ain't easy. Chez, you always seem to capture the human side vividly and with bracing honesty and I, for one, really appreciate that. Thanks always.

You want to know what love is? My wife tells me I'm better hung than any lover she's ever had. That might be a lie, but it's all I need to hear. And that, my friends, is what a wife our her husband. I owe her everything else.

No wonder it all fell apart! You're a whining bitch chez! Grow some balls and stand up for yourself. I am assuming by this timeline that this happened in the late 90's, did you ever here of a communication device called a cell phone! Blaming anyone else for YOUR drug use is just pathetic. Did you not learn a single thing from rehab? Airing your dirty laundry like this is not only insulting to the people that were probably trying to help you during your addiction it is just plain WRONG. Being an addict myself (clean 8yrs) i also blamed the people around me for being tough on me, but i now realise that they were only trying to help. It may not of been the most productive help at the time (i tried to cocoon myself in a heroine haze because of it), i ultimately lost my partner, house & possesions which was the extreme wake up call i had to go through.You have not only insulted them but also all the other addicts out there that have gotten themselves clean and faced up to the reality that the ONLY person to blame is yourself.Take some responsibility and get yourself clean again because it sound like you are still living in an adolecent drug infused fantasy world.

I'm a former network news producer and manager, the media editor at The Daily Banter, and a writer who's been featured in The Huffington Post,The New York Observer and The Village Voice. I'm also the author of a book called Dead Star Twilight and the founder of DXM Media, a firm specializing in television production as well as social media strategies and consulting. On top of all that crap, I'm the co-host of "The Bob & Chez Show" podcast and radio show with Bob Cesca. To find out more about me and/or throw money at me, go here. You can contact me at deusexmalcontent@gmail.com or chez@dxmmedia.com. Follow me on Twitter at @chezpazienza.

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